


At The Well

by Merixcil



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Sex Work, Whorephobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: In the midst of their companions' revelry, Jesus and Judas discuss the state of their human souls.
Relationships: Jesus Christ & Judas Iscariot
Kudos: 9





	At The Well

The underground clubs of Bethany are no more than illegal raves that happened and happened till they were made permanent by their own persistence. Ever an inch from closing, owing to the off duty centurions that dance and grind amongst the people they have sworn to subjugate, and everyone pretends that they can’t tell the difference. The pale skin of the West pressed close against brown bodies, melding into each other, promising that the next generation will not look like either of their parents.

These Romans could turn them in at any time, and when the wrong legionnaire, or cavalry officer, or G-d forbid, the Emperor, pass through town that’s exactly what they’ll do. Their fun isn’t worth their heads, but it’s certainly worth the heads of many hundred of Judeans to keep it that way.

Working girls spill across the dance floor, tempting people to bed or just the bathroom. You need to be careful when someone whispers sweet nothings in your ear. More often than not, they’ll wind up demanding payment for their services.

Payment. For that. Judas wrinkles his nose and tries not to judge, like they’re supposed to. To be good, when other people can’t. Don’t hold it against them. They know not what they do.

“H-he’s the son…the Lord’s son!” Simon hiccups, an arm slung around Jesus’s neck but his eyes fixed on a pretty girl who has let her head scarf fall back to her shoulders, exposing waves of thick dark hair that shimmers in the candle light. She smiles at him, but her hips won’t stop gyrating to the rhythm of the timbrel, the music of the asor.

Jesus dips his head and with the meekness of a lamb, pushes Simon away from him and towards the girl. His eyes are smiling. He does not judge.

As soon as you can blink, Simon and the girl are gone. Judas moves from his post by the bar and hurries to the empty space left at the Christ’s side. He slips into the spare seat, his back turned to the rest of the table, now sorely wanting for tenants though all thirteen of them had started the evening there some hours ago. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”

Jesus turns to him, smiling. By the Lord of all and the father of heaven and every idol the Romans hang in their cursed pantheon, he looks like the breaking dawn. Face haggard with dust from the road, hair and beard uncut and wild, thin as a straw. But beautiful.

At the far end of the table, Bartholomew and Thaddeus sit deep in conversation, muttering so low it’s a wonder they can hear each other over the noise. Judas wishes Jesus would vanish them with one of his parlour tricks that he uses to turn the more simple poor folk to their cause.

“Simon is allowed to bed whoever he chooses.” Jesus says. Without judgement for Simon, or for Judas. A never-ending circle of empathy that can make grown men weep. There’s no need to embellish the story by making this man divine.

“I take no issue with any man’s choice to pay a whore for her services.”

“And yet you call her a whore.”

“Jesus, please. You cannot allow him to keep referring to you as the son of the Lord. If the wrong person heard-“

“He means nothing by it. Please, Judas. Sit. Drink. Forget your anger for an evening, I beg of you.”

“How can I forget when this place is crawling with Romans?” Judas shifts his chair in closer, till his knees brush against Jesus’s.

“A Roman is not evil simply because he is a Roman.”

“No? And what else would you call the things we have done to our country?”

The pitcher of wine in the middle of the table is surrounded by cups already soiled from the evening’s merriment. Judas doesn’t know which one was his, but he takes the one Jesus pours for him and waits for the rich sting of alcohol to calm his nerves.

“The Roman empire will not live forever.” Jesus reaches out to take Judas by the wrist.

Judas tips his fingers to track the back of Jesus’s hand, where the rough skin lies frighteningly close to the bone. Carpenter’s hands. Once you learn how to build something out of wood and hard work, you never forget. “Neither will we.”

The music changes to something slow and sensuous, and the rising tide of human passions threatens to rip the roof off this squalid little barn on the edge of town. Judas’s heart keeps time with the stomping of feet on the dance floor as the crowd finds a new rhythm.

Jesus’s eyes don’t leave his. His smile is small and personal and the property of Judas alone.

And then, by some divine hand that Judas is already cursing, the seal of their hands is broken and they both fall back. But their knees are still touching, under the table and through two layers of denim. But still.

“I think, my dear Judas. That you ought to think on the things you love from time to time. You spend too long considering the things you hate.”

Any response Judas might make chokes on the blood still rising in his chest. Like a child, he concedes the point through his inability to articulate what is happening in his heart.

“Excuse me.” A voice: male; foreign; unused to speaking Hebrew. Someone taps Judas on the shoulder, and he looks up to see a tall, thick set man who’s skin shines the same pink as meat left to fester in the sun. His hair is the colour of wet hay and his eyes the green of a fetid millpond. “I wonder, you be letting me buy you a drink?”

Judas casts his eyes to the floor, shrinking under sight of the centurion. The hand holding his wine trembles, and he shakes his head.

“Sure?”

“Yes, my friend is quite sure.” Jesus tells the Roman, with the same warmth he uses to address the poor, the twelve, the whores fluttering through every inn they stay at, to Judas when he tells him again and again how he has gotten everything wrong.

The soldier moves away, and Judas uncurls slowly, like a turtle emerging from its shell when it’s certain the lion has let it be.

Jesus’s mouth is pinches, his eyes hiding a sadness that Judas refuses to believe is meant for him. “You think I would judge you for leaving here tonight in the company of a man?”

“No!” Judas snaps. “No.” Yes. “But if that were my intention I wouldn’t leave with a Roman.”

“That, I can believe.” Jesus’s hand finds Judas’s cheek and holds him steady. “Drink, my friend. If you cannot forget your troubles on your own, let the wine do it for you.”

“Perhaps I have too many troubles to drown.”

Jesus shakes his head. “When we are burdened beyond what we can carry, the only way forward is to shed our load.”

“Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for a troubles man to enter heaven.” Judas replies.

“When we arrive in Jerusalem, you can be the first of us to test the truth of that.”

Jesus is smiling, but it does nothing to soothe Judas’s heart and mind. Jerusalem must be reclaimed, with fire and blood no doubt. No doubt the Romans stripped every piece of Judea from the city as soon as they arrived, from the temples to Jerusalem’s own underground clubs. Armed guards at the gate and patrols stalking the streets. Simon and Peter talk like they will send their invaders to ruin with love alone.

Jesus’s thumb strokes Judas’s cheek. Such a tender gesture, and one he offers to anyone who will sit still long enough for him to lay hands on them. Judas doesn’t have the stomach for the same stretch of poverty as the Christ, and though his cheeks are rough with three days of stubble he will soon change. A more presentable face for an entirely unpalatable cause that will wish itself to an early grave with thoughts of revolution.

“You must be careful.” Judas tells him. He turns into Jesus’s touch and kisses the skin of his palm. He dreams of this, of wrapping his lips around a finger and drawing Jesus into him, walking over water till they come together. “We are years away from Jerusalem. You need to gather support before you face the Romans. You need an army. You need-“

“I need time.” Jesus finishes. “I need time and mine’s running out. I must complete my mission.”

“What mission do you have but to spread the new covenant?”

His face drawn, his eyes drifting closed in anguish. Jesus Christ opens his mouth and for a moment Judas believes he’s going to tell him everything.

“Drink your wine, Judas.”

Judas’s disappointment as Jesus’s hand falls from his face is outdone almost instantly as he watches those dark, deep, understanding eyes drift away from him to fix on something behind his back. That face, so open just a second ago, closing as a smile sweeps of Jesus’s face.

Jesus beckons. “Here!”

Judas expects to see Thomas, face red from exertion on the dance floor. Or Philip, feet unsteady from the wine. But when he turns his head he isn’t met by any of the twelve.

It is a woman, with dark skin and light eyes. Her hair is tucked beneath a sheer blue scarf that reveals more than it hides and her body is wrapped tight in garments cut from the same cloth. Nothing is visible and nothing is left to the imagination. Just another whore of Bethany.

Jesus reaches to take her hand and she laughs when they come together. Judas wants to hit her hard enough that she never laughs again.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“You can tell me you name.” Jesus’s eyes dance with mischief as he casts his eyes to Judas, like he can’t feel the boiling rage sitting heavy in the air.

The girl giggles, pretending to be embarrassed, as if no man has asked for her name before. “My name is Maryam. But my friends call be Mary.”

“Then I ask that we be friends, and that you let me call you Mary.” Jesus steadies her with a hand on her hip.

“It’s so nice to meet new friends.” Mary smiles. “And perhaps I might do as friends should and relieve you of your loneliness for the night.”

“I am never lonely.” Jesus lies.

Judas could reach over the table right now, bat this whore away and shake the Christ down. Tell me the truth, tell me everything. I will shoulder half this burden for you, and then we can run as far from Jerusalem as the Romans will let us.

“Well, perhaps you’d like to have a little fun.”

Jesus shakes his head. “Not me. My friend here, though, could make good use of your services. I would be happy to pay.”

Mary blinks down at Judas like she’s only just noticed he’s there. She shrinks, as does her smile. She can see his rage. Women can always see.

And Judas is an arrogant, idiot, fool. Cursed to suffer at the hands of his own assumptions. Jesus holds the whore out like a consolation prize.

“I do not want her.” Judas drains his cup and stands to leave. “Perhaps Simon has finished with the last one he picked up. You can pass her on to him.” The music pounds and thumps and stomps. Perhaps someone here tonight might let him flail against them in the dark, the two of the pretending the other could be anyone. In the aftermath they can speak of the years to come, and the stranger won’t recoil from the idea that they might have a future.

“Please, Judas. Let yourself be happy. For one night.” Jesus is already reaching to his coin purse, scraping together the handful of coins he has left from begging that morning.

“Do not pay her! I do not want her.”

“I will pay her all the same.” Jesus presses coppers into the hands of Mary the whore, who Judas must not judge for being a harlot, who he must not judge at all.

Mary doesn’t try to turn the money down. “Perhaps you might want to make use of my services instead.” And when she smiles at Jesus it’s real. It’s always real when someone smiles at the Nazarene, for he is like the promise of a new day and kind beyond his wisdom.

And because he is kind, Jesus considers it. Judas has never seen him pursue sex for as long as he has known him. Sex happens only when it is part of his duties, when he is showing his followers that a woman who sells her body is good enough for him. A lesson he has failed to teach Judas many times.

“Not tonight.” He decides. “I apologise for calling you over here for nothing. Please, go about your business and enjoy the night.”

“You’ve paid for my time.” Mary clinks the coins together. “I can offer more than a hole or a hand. I could take a cup of wine with you.”

With wordless horror, Judas watches Mary fall into the chair he left open. Jesus’s eyes settle on her face and her face only, ready to convert. Before the night is through, she may yet have his fingers on her tongue, his breath in her ear. Without judgement, for how do you judge a human body for doing what it craves?

Jesus reaches to pour her a cup. “I would like nothing better than to talk with you. I have much to share.”

“Oh yes? And what would you share with me?”

“Eternal life.”

Mary laughs. Jesus watches her. Judas watches both of them. She’ll understand soon enough.

Judas feels the pulse of the club up through his feet and departs without saying goodbye. He passes Simon, returning from wherever he went with his whore, already advancing on a pretty pair of sisters he met in the town square that day with Thomas in tow. In the morning, the thirteen of them will wake in the shelter of the stables of the Piper Band Inn, hungover and happy to see each other. Without judgement and without sin. Tonight will be lost to the ages, for none of the trappings of this place can follow them into the morrow.

Into the dawning of a new day.

Into a new light.

Judas sees the blue of Mary’s robes in half a dozen girls around him. He tries to forget where he is among the fading shadows of soon forgotten strangers, finding joy in the middle of an occupation. She will be gone in the morning, along with everything else. She has to be. And when Jesus talks his eyes might fall on Judas and it will be as if all the world were laid out between them.

By the grace of G-d, Judas swears she will be gone. He moves past the Roman who had offered to buy him a drink, locked in an embrace with some poor Judean boy, and as he averts his gaze, he almost believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](https://jeffersonhairpie.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/chadfuture_)
> 
> Comments are love!


End file.
